Mercy From on High
by LadyPorpoise
Summary: Fingon goes to save Maedhros from the fell cliffs of Thangorodrim...Fingon is successful in this, but as their savior stops at a small cave so Maedhros would not die from the amputation, Fingon discovers that the eagle is more than just an eagle, and he is heartened to learn that the Valar have not forsaken the Noldor entirely, but only if they seek the Powers out. Not slash.


_A/N This is probably the biggest ongoing oneshot I've done yet...I've been wanting to do something like this for a while: what with Fingon maybe having some lasting physical changes from the Helcaraxe and some ideas that certain characters in the Silmarillion are not just highly intelligent animals. I know the quality could be better, characterization wise, but this is what came out._

 _Maitimo is one of the many names of Maedhros...Findekano is Fingon's quenya name. Feanaro is Feanor's quenya name too. I would have used the first two names throughout, but I didn't feel like writing them out and for the sake of consistency._

 _Enjoy. :)_

* * *

Fingon pulled himself over the third cliff face of rock he had to climb in the past hour. Once he reached the top he fell over and simply lay there, ignoring the pain of his harp digging into his back. The lingering cold of the Helcaraxë sent a deep chill into his bones, making him immobile against his will.

"Well this is fun…" the elf muttered with a chattering voice as he shivered. He lifted his hand up and stared at it. It looked so alien with his middle finger and pinky gone: all lost to the frostbite. Sighing he dropped his arm to rest on the gravel, waiting for the chill to pass.

"Had it coming, did you not?" Fingon asked while he tensed his jaw. "We kill our own kind, get betrayed…" He rolled onto his stomach and stood up again. "My uncle succeeds in killing himself, and my cousin goes and does the same thing." Fingon huffed, "And why? Because we are _all_ idiots."

Fingon hiked for another hour in the barren wasteland. The silence was driving him insane. All he found was more cliffs, and stopping where he was, he sighed.

"The things I do for you sometimes, my friend. Even if you are still alive, maybe by some chance of fate I will find you. I might end up being put through pains unspeakable, but at least you will not suffer alone."

Fingon found a rock and sat down on it. He took his harp off his back and let it rest on his knee. He stared at the instrument and his ruined hand, biting his lip as his heart drummed in his chest. This was a big risk he was taking, to do what he was about to do. The worst outcome would be drawing the enemy's attention and thereby being taken to the hell-pits of Angband. On the other hand, nothing would happen, but he would not be any closer to finding his cousin-his king.

'If it is your will, Mighty One,' he beseeched in his mind. 'Let naught happen, and give me insight for where I must go.'

And he started to play, singing softly along with each strumming of the strings; his voice echoing throughout the mountains. His fingers were clumsy as a result of the sleep-like state he was forced into at some point during the trek through the Helcaraxë. He had to strain the three fingers on his right hand in order to keep the tune from sounding awry.

The song he sang brought melancholy to his mind: memories of a time when everything was clean, and everyone was innocent. The Noldor had forsaken their innocence. The memory of the trees rang clear and he briefly looked up to the sky, still awed by Anor's brightness and grateful that they had the light again.

Fingon thought he was hallucinating when he heard another voice: faint, but present. He must have longed for another presence to start imagining things. But the further he listened, he came to realize that he was not fantasizing. Standing up, Fingon stopped playing the harp but continued singing; his heart beating in an anxious rhythm from apprehension and hope. He jogged towards the direction of the source, moving through a tight space to another rock-field. The elf skidded to a halt and he gasped sharply at what he beheld.

An elf, no, a wraith would be better described for the being, but an elf it was: hanging on the cliffside by the wrist, unclothed and horrifically thin. Catching glimpse of the russet hair, although matted and a house to parasites maybe, is what made Fingon look away as he staggered in horror.

"Merciful stars, what have they done to you?" The elf choked on his words as he stared at anywhere but the pitiful _thing_ the enemy had turned Maedhros into. Fingon had to look back again as he heard the faint, broken sound of humming coming from above and were it not for the surrounding rocks and mountains he likely would not have heard it at all.

Fingon would never erase the image from his mind, no matter how hard he would try days and years later. He immediately resolved himself and began to search for a way to climb, uncaring of the height he would have to traverse, but a chasm sat between the cliff Maedhros hung from and the plateau Fingon stood on. The fact of the situation weighed heavily on Fingon's heart and tears stung in his eyes; feeling more helpless than he ever felt before in his life. Forget all the sins Maedhros may have committed at Alqualondë and the burning of the ships.

This was brutality and malice all in one place that Maedhros did not deserve.

"Drepa alnej!" The ruined figure screamed: anguish and suffering sounded strongly in the cracking, raspy voice.

Fingon's mind was too numb to react hearing such vile sounds. Hearing the tones in his cousin's voice gave him all the meaning he needed to know when he did not understand what apparently were words. Mechanically he withdrew his bow, and he struggled momentarily to decide which hand would hold the bow and arrow. It did not take too long, and his heart beat heavily in sorrow.

If this is what he was sent to do: release Maedhros from his suffering, while bittersweet about it, then by Eru he would do it.

"O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need*!" Fingon cried aloud in his grief, not expecting to be heard. Why would the Valar heed him when his kin had rebelled against them?

Yet the hosts of the Noldor were split, and he knew the remaining sons of Fëanor would need divine strength to cope with the loss of a brother. In blackened light of the situation, maybe the news of the death of the king would snap everyone out and reunite them.

At this moment, Fingon did not care if there was another genocide when he came back.

Fingon closed his eyes once he knew he had aimed and judged the distance correctly. He did not want to see any more than he had to.

The wind suddenly picked up and it forced Fingon to face the direction of where it came from. The elf's stomach flopped and his bow clattered uselessly on the ground as he beheld the biggest bird he believed to have ever seen. His hair blew past his ears as the bird descended into the pit and dug its talons into the side of the rock; perching itself right below the son of Fingolfin.

'Quickly: they will know I have come, and you will only have a short time before we must fly from here,' the low voice reached to Fingon's thought.

Fingon hesitated briefly, stunned and overwhelmed by this revelation. He obeyed, however, getting on the bird's neck. He grabbed some feathers to hold onto as the massive creature flapped its wings slightly just enough to launch itself into the air and to land against the wall the Noldorin king was bound to.

Being closer to Maedhros made Fingon's stomach churn as he beheld the cruelty done to his brother at heart. To say Maedhros was alright with all this activity would be a lie. In fact, he was hating every minute of it given the distress revealed on his face. Fingon crawled at a snail's pace as he made his way closer to the trapped elf; the eagle having perched its head right under the ruined king's feet. Fingon did not want to fall off in being too hasty.

"Maitimo," Fingon said softly but firmly as he slowly reached out towards the steel band encasing his cousin's wrist. "We are going to get out of this hell and return to our families back at Hísilómë." Fingon tried not to gag at the sight of the bound hand. It was black and dead looking.

Maedhros had the look of pure bewilderment and terror, not understanding what was being said and staring at Fingon like he was going to do something horrendous. He moaned and groaned at the handling and made a choked sound. "D-drepa alnej, drepa…" he begged over and over again.

Fingon thought his eyes would melt out of his skull hearing that foul tongue be spoken again. Dread filled his heart as he thought Maedhros probably had forgotten what Quenya was. "Whoever invented that tongue I will personally send a letter of complaint to-with a poisoned fruit to complement it." Fingon continued casually, finding himself able to keep his own wit intact if he did so. He felt panic edge at the borders of his mind as he found no way to release the hand from the steel trap. Would he end up having to kill his friend after all?

'We cannot stay for much longer,' the voice warned urgently.

Fingon shook and he mentally screamed at the descending chill in his bones to go die in the void. This was not a good time to freeze up! He stared at the steel trap and an idea came to his mind, instantly questioning his own sanity as his hand went for his dagger. He gazed forlornly at Maedhros, "This will hurt, my brother."

Maedhros kept repeating the same words and he froze as Fingon wrapped an arm around him. Fingon had to steady his hand and force his mind to go blank as he slashed the dagger into his cousin's wrist.

Maedhros screamed and tried to twist away from Fingon's hold, but with muscles atrophied and suffering from severe malnourishment, he got nowhere. If Fingon paid attention he would have seen a look of betrayal flash across the redhead's face.

Fingon ignored the blood spilling over the wrist having severed arteries with the first strike. He hacked at it again and the rotted hand broke free from the arm. Maedhros slumped in Fingon's hold and Fingon dropped the dagger in order to get a firm hold on him. Fingon found it easy to drag the eldest son of Fëanor onto the eagle's neck, then the bird shifted to a more horizontal stance when Fingon and Maedhros were on its back.

Fingon held on with one hand while with the other arm kept Maedhros close as the bird ascended into the air. The awe from the sights around them did not last too long as Fingon hastily ripped a part of his clothes off to make a tourniquet, cursing himself for not doing so immediately, but there was no time. He unfastened his cloak to shield Maedhros from the world after applying the binding, yet that was when he noticed something was wrong.

The tortured elf struggled to breathe and when Fingon checked his heartbeat, he noticed that it staggered and possessed an irregular rhythm.

This discovery made Fingon's own heart stop and outrage filled his spirit. "Do not start doing this, Maitimo!" he yelled. "You hung from that forsaken cliff for years and you did not die, so do not die on me now! I have come too far for this!"

He got no answer, and he started to despair as tears filled his eyes again. He groaned as everything became cold and he curled in on himself, the curse of the ice-fields successfully getting its hold back.

The eagle turned its head ever so slightly to the side to examine the ones on its back. One was dying, and the other very well may follow from grief. The mountains were close, and the bird headed towards them.

Fingon did not care about the sudden shift of direction and incline; oblivious to everything but the cold and his grief. All that spent time just to see Maedhros die. He became aware again when he felt no wind blowing past them. The giant eagle stood on a flat surface and the entrance to a cave could be seen.

'Bear your kinsman away,' came the voice a third time.

Fingon shook the cobwebs from his mind and he carefully wrapped the cloak around Maedhros before lifting him. Fingon found it hard to believe he still breathed, but it remained awful sounding to his ears. The son of Fingolfin found himself growing weary: physically and emotionally as he walked into the cave.

It was a circular room and a small fire sat at the center. Furs and skins scattered the floor and the rock formed ledges on the sides of the walls. Fingon felt relief in his veins and he hastened to set his cousin on one of the furs. He was not a healer, but if there was a way to ease his breathing and calm his heart…

"Let me see him."

Fingon jumped out of his shoes and turned sharply at the now familiar voice. Closer to the ceiling a figure knelt on one knee. The being's skin was golden as were his eyes, his hair brown and long with a silver circlet on top. He wore a simple brown tunic with gold edging. But what made Fingon blanch was when he saw the wings folded gently around the being's back.

The person simply watched and climbed down the rock.

Fingon trembled as he saw the Maia of Manwë come forth. He looked outside for the eagle, only to see that it was not there. His eyes darted back to the Maia, and without truly thinking he stepped aside so the being could examine his cousin.

"Sit down and warm yourself, son of Ñolofinwë," the Maia said lowly. "You have earned your rest."

"W-who are you?" Fingon asked and felt the urge to get down on his face and beg for pardon.

"I am not Eru to be worshipped," the Maia chastised as he apparently discerned those thoughts, making Fingon blush in shame. "I am Thorondor if you must know."

Fingon did have to sit down then, and his hand slowly reached for a fur to cover himself with. The chill had not departed yet. "You heard my prayer then, yes? And sent the eagle…"

Thorondor smirked faintly although Fingon would not see. "I was the eagle that bore you here, child."

Fingon felt even more ashamed as he completely forgot that the Ainur could shapeshift. He anxiously watched as Thorondor examined Maedhros. The king was in seriously bad shape, but Fingon refused to acknowledge anything beyond the dead hand and his gauntness. There were so many unhealed wounds, and there was the issue concerning the state of Maedhros' mind.

It was not good.

"Do not worry yourself, Findekáno," Thorondor's voice filled the silence. "You both are safe here."

"Will he live?" Fingon asked softly. "I acted hastily, and I know I should have done other things, but…" He trailed off.

Thorondor did not answer, continuing with his work.

Fingon frowned before weariness settled in and made it hard to stay awake. Pulling the fur around his shoulders, he set himself down on the ground and tried to sleep.

It was hard to do so since at some point in the night Maedhros regained a small semblance of consciousness. Fingon was relieved to hear his breathing was easier, but he wished the nightmares did not come. Maedhros babbled incoherently and wept, and at one-point, Fingon glanced to see him trying to get away from the Maia. But Thorondor did nothing but sing a fair song that soothed both the elves' nerves, even though Maedhros took longer to be pacified than it did Fingon.

When Fingon woke again, it was the next day. He stretched and sat up as he blearily looked around the place. Maedhros remained motionless and quiet on the rock ledge, his wrist securely bandaged. Fingon briefly started and felt anger on his unconscious cousin's behalf when he saw a large amount of the red locks were shorn. At least what remained seemed clean.

The son of Fingolfin got onto his knees and searched for the Maia. Thorondor stood at the entrance of the cave, and all the elf could see were the wings. Fingon was not completely sure if Thorondor was aware of his awakening, but Fingon arose quietly to reassure himself of Maedhros' more or less stable condition.

Staring at him, Fingon just regarded his best friend with sadness, hate towards Morgoth growing within him. "How could they be so cruel?" he asked no one.

"Evil knows no bounds when they trap someone within in their grasp."

Fingon turned and regarded Thorondor evenly, though with respectful fear at the same time. Fingon was guilty of death, and for all he knew he could die right here. "Why did you answer my prayer?" he questioned warily. "We do not deserve any mercy for what we have done, lord. We disobeyed…we rebelled."

Thorondor's features softened. "Why should we not help those who call out for aid?"

Fingon shook his head, bewilderment swarming him, and it made him jittery. "Why though? I am no less guilty than the rest of my kin."

Thorondor glanced at the unconscious king thoughtfully. "Because, unlike them, you knew this was beyond your grasp and sought out help. You hoped to be heard, even if it was a small hope, and that was enough."

Fingon appeared disbelieving. "You mean to say that after all that time, Maitimo did not even _once_ call out to you?"

Thorondor nodded grimly.

The prince covered his eyes with his hands and gripped his hair, groaning. "Mercy on our souls to have fallen so far!" He sighed. "My lord…" he began tentatively. "Why me, of all people? And yet I feel warmed knowing we have not been abandoned completely…" He rambled.

Thorondor said nothing and he walked to the center of the cave. "Come here."

Fingon obeyed, watching the Maia like a pupil waiting for what their teacher will say.

"The words of the Doomsman still stands: we will not aid you nor hinder you. But our watch on this World we cannot withdraw from. While the Noldor may have forsaken us in the West, there are many others who seek our help in many things." Thorondor looked at him pointedly. "You, Findekáno, as well as the sons of Arafinwë, have kept your hearts set on seeking us out when you admit when something is beyond your ken. We will not deny you for that. Your repentance upon the Grinding Ice is enough." The Maia turned his gaze to the outside. "Even then, some things must come to pass, and not even the Dark One can change fate."

Fingon mulled over the words. "Am I…have I been used to make sure something does happen?"

Thorondor smiled sadly. "You are the key to reuniting your people, Findekáno. Your uncle started something that will not end for a while yet, but the sooner the Noldor are reunited again, then so shall other pieces fall into place and the fair notes of each theme shall be dominant once more."

Fingon felt humble on the inside and further comforted that they were not abandoned still. But his brows furrowed, and he looked back to his cousin.

Thorondor became grim at the silent question. "The sons of Fëanáro will not have an easy road, Findekáno. Their oath binds them to their cause, and they cannot escape it unless they seek pardon: pardon that they do not want. Woe will fall on them for all the good they seek to do."

"Why then show us this one mercy?" Fingon asked firmly and turned back. "If you will not continue to do so for the others."

Thorondor shook his head slowly. "We will not force something that must be theirs to decide. While the children of Ilúvatar have free will to chose for themselves their destiny, they must face the consequences of that free will: be it for good or for worse."

Fingon was unsure how to take those words. In the end, he got on his knees. "What would you have me do?"

"Continue as you are, Findekáno." Thorondor lifted the elf's chin up with his hand. "Perhaps your faith may win these lost souls back to the light. That is our hope."  
Fingon nodded, "Then let the will of Eru be done, lord."

Thorondor smiled, this time a happier one. "Eat and drink, little one, and then I will take you and your kinsman back to Hísilómë." And with that, he withdrew.

Fingon remained kneeling for a moment longer, feeling strange and numb while simultaneously warm. He remained confused by this experience, but he felt encouraged by it too. He was not going to let this mercy get to his head, he knew that much.

Fingon quickly refreshed himself before approaching his cousin. Maedhros had a semblance of peace, but Fingon knew that it would not always be this way in the near future. Fingolfin's son lifted his king from the rock and carried him outside.

The massive eagle was back; this time knowing it was Thorondor. Letting the elf use a wing to climb to his back, Fingon found a secure spot and held onto his burden. With a mighty flap of his wings, Thorondor took off into the air with his cargo.

Without the sense of urgency weighing Fingon down, he was able to appreciate the experience and the view in all its glory. Fingon saw the vast green land of Beleriand and the forests therein. He could even see the great sea which they had just crossed. Maedhros' head moved slightly and Fingon looked down.

"When you are healed, Maitimo, I need to lay dibs on what land ought to be mine," Fingon said to him, even if he would not get any response. It would help anyway. "While the reason for our coming was rather foolish, no one can deny that this is a beautiful place."

Fingon turned his attention towards the direction Thorondor flew towards. He saw the lake, their encampments, and their people. His heart fluttered a beat as he saw his beloved wife Síwen and his father. The sons of Fëanor were also present. Fingon sighed and his energy began to fade again as they got closer to their destination.

His mission was a success, and he savored that victory, for who knew when he would be able to do so again.

* * *

 _Drepa alnej - Black Speech for "Kill me"_

 _* = Silmarillion pg 103. I looked for it in the dark...and if that's the wrong page number, it's very short into "Of the Return of the Noldor"._


End file.
